Fallout: Lost Orleans (New Edition)
by BJSC
Summary: For old fans, welcome back. For new fans, welcome. Fallout: Lost Orleans is a project that is under constant improvement & what I aim for is nothing short of the quintessential fallout experience. The only difference being that its relayed through the medium of literature rather than a game format. I aspire towards crafting something daring and new. It's not finished yet but enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

**Lost Orleans**

No one knows the year.

The chronometer just ticks uselessly on the dust strewn desk as Oscar scavenged the dilapidated warehouse, shafts of pale light filtering through the high windows above, murky as moonshine. He picks it up cautiously for a moment, the hazy green light from its screen gleaming dimly, and gives it a few taps. Despite its faint glow it wouldn't give the time, the year, the date. That was lost – locked behind a series of digital eights that blinked up at him, as though non-plussed. As though, in this crust of a bygone world, it too couldn't fathom the depths of time. The secret mechanics that whirred and clunked within the confines of its rusted shell were long since broken.

 _Still the scrap parts might fetch something back at the Post_ , he thought. The savvy, old scavver pocketed the thing and then sifted through the other drawers, pulling them out one by one, and one by one they clattered to the floor as they were robbed of any mechanism, any device that might fetch some caps.

The Post was Oscar's home. The only home a person can have in this land for miles around. It was surrounded by overgrown wastes, tribals, old towns invaded by looming trees and the snaking river Mississippi. It was an outpost – a waystation for traders between the NCR dominated west and the Commonwealth to the east. Such stations dappled the long road between these sparks of civilization as something like a new silk road sprawled between them.

There were a few old world cities near the Post too. They were cities that once gleamed in neon – warm and inviting, almost like one of those ladies dressed to dazzle in the old world posters; hot with action, bustle, sass and life. Those old world cities were now unrecognizable; looming towers of scorched concrete erect upon scorched earth, eldritch and as forgotten as that chronometer: still with the echoes of a distant past, the same one every eerie city beckoned you to with its posters and dusty record albums; a golden age that was now lost forever in the depths of time. It was all gone because the fire had consumed it. The fire had ate-ate-ate it…

In his pockets the chronometer blink-blinked that same series of eights.

…but, in some ways, that world was still there. It haunted the old world songs that crackled from mended record players. Its pulse beat through from the past in haunting soliloquy. It was still there, in the ruins of the old world, like a ghost. You could always feel it filter through from the past and touch you, like the shadow of a whisper; a murmur.

Now Oscar moved, lithely, stealthily from the desk through the cavernous depot, his body tracing around the light, keeping to shadows where he could, so no one who happened to be there might spot him. There are many hard ways to make a living out in the wastes. Shooting a scavver and stealing his loot ain't one of them. He kept an eye out for traps as he moved. You didn't stay alive as a scavenger for long without taking extra care while moving through these old buildings. You never knew what you might find…

He moved into a corridor and up a flight of stairs before stopping in front of a goddamn door. Yes, it really was a _goddamn_ door. It was steel plated, barred and bolted, locked sideways, front ways, back ways - locked every which _goddamn_ way, and yet Oscar cracked a smile. Excitedly, he pulled out the thermite and set it against the door. _No door messed with the Post._ He chuckled lightly to himself as he ignited it and rushed out of the way. _Especially, when there's bound to be the haul of the century on the other side…_

The flash was over in a few moments and the door collapsed to the ground with a tremendous clang.

The sound reverberated through the building. He drew his gun and waited, straining his ears for any sound, inside or outside the building.

There was nothing. The man's smile broadened. Then it slipped from his face.

He moved in and was crestfallen to find an ordinary office, almost perfectly preserved. Pristine. Empty. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. This wasn't normal. He might have expected a vault, some kind of… well… treasure – but this? He stepped into the room as he holstered his weapon.

The man was almost awed by the silence as he stepped around the steel door and paced his way to a desk, like the others he had searched through, and stood there dumbfounded.

 _Fuck!_ He'd wasted thermite for this? He pawed his way through the drawers anyway, pocketing a broken watch, hauling a fan, some gears of some broken device, a key, a gold medallion (well, at least that was something), and then, upon consideration, a computer cassette labelled "V.T. Guide". The man checked out the rest of the room for any hidden safes, any secret doors, but from the room's dimensions and layout he knew he was searching in vain. When he found nothing he sighed, resigning himself for a loss on the day and set off out of the South's most heavily guarded admin office. _Must have been one paranoid boss to have that as his office door,_ he thought. It didn't concern him too much. What did concern him was his own boss and how he'd start yammering about the damn thermite. _Yeah, it sure was a goddamn door…_

He'd noticed the walls were lead lined too, and this might have unsettled him if it weren't for the figure that suddenly barred his path.

Oscar froze.

The figure paced forward.

Oscar reached for his gun.

The figure's arm was a blur as three belches of smoke streamed forth from the figure's own gleaming barrel.

It took a few moments before Oscar noticed the white hot pain, or that he was slumped against the wall, or that he was choking on his own blood. He stared wide eyed at the figure as it continued to calmly pace towards him, feet not making a sound, as though it walked on fucking air. Beads of cold sweat glistened on Oscar's brow as his eyes absorbed the details he hadn't caught before – the heavy overcoat, the intricate black tattoo…stretched across its face, like a crucifix… the lifeless eyes.

The figure, only known in the Deep South as Mr Graves, looked down at the scavver with those black eyes, before reaching for the man's pockets and rifling through them. The scavver spluttered, "Fuck y…" as he made a futile strike at the figure.

A disembodied otherworldly voice interrupted him.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk… That will never do."

Oscar felt his forearm caught in what felt like a vice as the shadowy figure seized it with lightning reflexes. It took a while before he realised that the quaint voice had rolled out not from the figure, but from the sputtering tannoy system overhead.

"I spy with my little eye," the speaker near whispered, "something beginning with a scream…"

The silent figure snapped his arm single-handedly, as though it were a twig. Oscar yelped as he stared down at his disjointed limb, the figure quietly rising with the cassette labelled "V.T. Guide" in one hand and the chronometer in the other. He pocketed the cassette and dropped the chronometer. It clattered to the ground and rolled against Oscar's trembling feet.

Oscar's pale and febrile face swivelled to the loudspeaker on the wall overhead. It was a rusty and splintered shard of its former self, jutting out from the corner like the head of a hollowed out ice-pick jutting out of bare skull. The hell was that voice? Was it this… _creature's_ boss? How'd it gain access to the tannoy system of an empty warehouse? He felt sick. The message that had last crackled from it reverberated through the vast, desolate depot. Oscar was about to dismiss hearing it as some near death delusion, when suddenly that voice, that strange antiquated voice, rolled out yet again on a wave of scratchy static.

"I've been keeping a close eye on you," It crackled with an aloof and callous tone. "You must know how _contrite_ I am over this whole business. I'm not so keen on… _blood_. But the moment you chose to come out here… _well._ That was when you made your final decision. My deepest commiserations for getting you caught up in this scene. From your end this deed might seem confounding, bewildering even…"

Oscar croaked in reply. It was a low guttural growl as blood rose up in his throat and splattered over his shirt. Perhaps he was trying to say ' _Fuck you'_ again. He wasn't really sure as the darkness started sinking into his vision.

"But the thing is, Oscar…"

 _The bastard knew his name!_ Despite the pain, Oscar felt a jolt of panic rise up from his bleeding guts.

"…there are some secrets that were never meant to be revealed."

A single shot resounded through the building like a punctuation mark. Oscar's body slumped to the floor. Smoke coiled from the silent figure's gun. The tannoy system shut down with a _click_. The air crackled with silence.

The ghostly figure, Mr Graves to some, then turned and left the building. His job was complete. No man would come after him – and even if they did, if they were so foolhardy, they wouldn't find him. He stepped outside the building – a vast complex with the letters V. . U. L. T. T. E. C. running along the side – before slipping away through the desolate town and disappearing into the looming willows beyond.

Oscar bled to death as the chronometer slowly wound down, blinking its last series of eight's as its electric pulse died away, and the dying pulse of a bygone world with it. He didn't know why the figure only took the cassette; he didn't truly know what he was dying for. The world faded around the lone scavver, and whatever secrets it may have held vanished with it. So much has changed since the last pulse of those eldritch cities.

But war… War never changes.

 **Act 1**

 **Scene 1**

Oswald exhaled from his cigar, the haze of blue tinted smoke wafting up to the rafters of the cabin he shared with the other man. They sat opposite each other. He was the wealthy proprietor of the Post, trade mogul and 'entrepreneur' sat in a plush Brahmin hide seat, leaning back behind his desk and delighting in his cigar in the half-lit room. Early morning southern sunlight peeked through the wooden blinds behind him, casting Oswald in a large and round silhouette – _almost like_ , _whassisname, the Hitchcock guy from those old world shows._ Lawman, on the other hand, was less comfortable.

"Sure you don' wan' a cigar, Lawman?" Oswald drawled. Lawman – that was a hell of a name he picked up now wasn't it. He wasn't a lawman no more of course. That was a whole age gone by. That didn't stop them calling him it though. You can take the man out of the law and shoot him in the back, but you can't take the law out of the man. Not this one anyway, so they said.

Lawman fidgeted in his chair. His hair was silver-grey now and he looked like he'd seen many gunfights and not always come out entirely on top. His hands itched for the whiskey he spotted on the sideboard.

"Or you're always welcome to some hooch," Oswald smiled as he watched the man's hands. _Damn him! And damn his own thirst._ But he didn't refuse as a drink was poured for him and placed on his side of the desk.

Lawman downed it in one gulp. Oswald showed no surprise.

"I'll get straight to the point, Lawman. I'm pulling together a team. It ain't the most slick team of gunslingers that ever crossed God's country but I can make do with a few thieves, former raiders, you know the sort. How you finding the scavving business anyway?"

"It pays the bills well enough, more than what being sheriff ever did," Lawman grunted.

"There ain't no law here. Just business."

Lawman said nothing.

"This team," Oswald continued, his chair creaking as he shifted his weight, "I want it to go on a scavenger hunt."

"The usual drill?"

"Not even. You will be travelling south. Deep South." Oswald peered through the haze of smoke. "How do you feel about that?"

Lawman had heard of this South. The post was deep in frontier territory itself, surrounded by tribals only kept at bay by a palisade on one side, the Mississippi on the other and a sizeable tribute. The tribals even then would still raid caravans from time to time and engage in guerrilla warfare, but hey, that's home sweet home for ya.

Now that's the Post, and it ain't tame by any man's measure, but that's the post. Then there's _South_.

"Marshes, swamps, mirelurks, gatorclaws, radioactive fog and voodoo crazies who make our tribal friends look like fairy godmothers. And here I was just thinking I needed a holiday."

"Lost cities," Oswald countered, "treasure, and, above all… _technology untouched by the brotherhood of steel_."

"The brotherhood of steel isn't barmy enough to have ever gone that far south…"

"Wrong. They have sent a detachment south. Recently."

"What? Why?"

"I don't know, but I can hazard a guess."

"Well. Guess away, then," Lawman gestured, and then said, "somethings happening down there isn't there. Something… something has stirred the hornet's nest." It wasn't a question. And that was exactly what the south was – a hornet's nest. The great war had blasted most of the continent into a barren wasteland but the further south you went the more the radiation seemed to have the opposite effect. Perhaps it was the climate, but the mutations were unlike anything else and the terrain had been changed permanently. The South was almost a dense jungle of warped willows, vines and mires. Lakes pooled within dark forests to make passage almost impenetrable. On top of that the ever present mists disrupted compasses. It was as though the South had undergone a tectonic shift – it might as well have done, because most of the old world cities there had been lost for generations.

"Evidence has been found by some travelling walk the wastes fuck that there exists tech in the south. Tech that has remained untouched since the great war. He stumbled across it down there and had a tape to prove it. It was a Vault Tec research facility. Some sort of hub. A data collection point for all vault info. All vault technology is collected at one central node and that node is located…"

"…South."

"…The city of sin itself." Oswald's greed flashed in his eyes as his voice became hushed with excitement. "New Orl-."

" _Lost_ Orleans, you mean."

Oswald slammed his fist on the table in a sudden spark of rage. "Don't fucking interrupt me!"

Lawman raised an eyebrow. Oswald cleared his throat. "As I was saying," he said, straightening his tie, "You're right. _Lost_ Orleans. And it's a damn good job it's lost too because that wasteland fuck of a traveller I told you about, went around jabberin' to everyone! That's how I know about it. And now I know others are looking for that tech too…

"Oscar. I sent him on a simple scavenging trip to Vault tec's southern headquarter's - that's not too far from here. Thought it'd be an easy mark."

"So what happened, Oswald?"

"Someone shot him, Lawman. Someone fucking shot him dead. I don't know which son of a bitch did it but clearly someone else had the same idea to look there."

"Coulda been a raid…"

"No items were taken from him. He was found with what he was haulin'."

There was a chill silence as the two men took that in.

"Forces are on the move, and they're already ahead of us. The brotherhood of Steel is already moving in from the east and if they've heard word then how long before the NCR send a squadron of vertibirds that-a way. The hunt has already started, and if we don't get there first we might just be standing slap bang in the middle of a gunfight between our trading partner and those self-appointed, self-righteous, holier than thou fucks!"

" _Christ_ …" Lawman moaned. "You know I hate it when you get all geopolitical."

"Well, there's a lot riding on this. That's what I'm saying, Lawman. Your home is the same as my home after all. We're in this same boat together, you and I."

"Surely if it comes to gunslinging it will be happening in that devils sweat sack down south?"

"How long before it comes to us?"

There was no answer to that question. Trade was the one lifeline that the post had. Blood and sweat had gone into converting the area around here into a safe traversable path where Brahmin packs and convoy systems could be established. The Post had little else.

If trade dried up the caravan companies would up sticks and then what? We'd all be tribals again, tribals with a pretty fort, sure, but no money to pay off the other tribals who would surely attack us. The Post started life as a point of contact between the local tribes and the caravan companies, a sort of gathering point where access to safe passage was negotiated. Soon the Post grew from a prison ruin into a settlement with company employees forming a permanent population. Then some tribes assimilated, joined the Post and its "easy livin'". Nothing easy about it really but it provided opportunities tribal life did not, like the opportunity to gamble away everything you own at the card tables or to explore with a convoy, or, hell, the opportunity to drown your sorrows with booze and forget your past. The temptation for many overcame tribal traditions. For other tribals, well, the company dealt with them in other ways. Those ways usually involved finding the right tribal leaders and setting one tribe against another. Byzantine politics it was called back in the old world. _It's one hell of an ace to pull out of ya sleeve, that's for sure._

Oswald seemed to know what Lawman was thinking because next he said, "And what would happen to us if trade were disrupted? Now see, finding this Tech for ourselves would be one hell of a boon – we just sell to the highest bidder, while keeping our involvement hush hush. Anonymous buyer and all that shit. I know how to pull the strings, but if some other group catches wind of it and snatches it from us, well, who knows what could happen. Uncertainty is bad for business. And war is bad for law. Being that there is no law in war. Only blood. You see my problem."

"And so you want me and a collection of cut-throats to travel all the way down south to the heart of darkness and pull out some data file from somewhere, which god knows not where and god knows not what soul dare visit, so that you can get rich…"

"So we can be rich, Lawman! Equal shares all round."

"Equal shares?"

"Square as square can be. Just find me the data file and it's yours. Do it for the money, do it for the Post, or do it to spare this land from a standoff between the two main powers across this nuclear fire blasted continent – I don't care. But that's the job."

"And why me. Why the hell involve me?"

"Because I know you, Lawman. I know you're square. I know you're true to your word, straight as an arrow. Sure I can hire men quicker than you, stronger than you, more skilled than you, I sure as hell can hire them younger than you, and no offense meant there now, but you ain't no spring chicken no more, you know what I'm sayin'." Lawman did but just shrugged as if to say he could give any spring chicken a run for their money. Oswald smiled his big greasy smile. "But you're the one I can trust, Lawman. And in this business that's priceless."

"Uh-huh," Lawman said, sizing up what he'd just heard and deciding he smelled bullshit. "Or maybe you just need me 'cause I'm the only goddamn guy with a pip-boy for hundreds of miles around."

Oswald just shrugged as he sank back in his chair, but his beady eyes watched Lawman shrewdly. "Maybe you are. And maybe that's a factor, Lawman. A pip-boy is invaluable and probably necessary to open any vault come to that – short of a ton of thermite. Of course," he chuckled, "It had been suggested to me by some of the others that we just slit your throat and take the Pip-boy for ourselves, but I told our boys, 'now see here I know Lawman and he's a damn straight shooter, and no mistake. He will be an excellent addition to the team and I won't take kindly to any talk of doin' him harm'."

"I'm so grateful you've got my back, Oswald," Lawman replied dryly. "You want that I go on an expedition with these cut-throats who'd sooner stab me in the back as look at me?"

"Why not? You've dealt with these types before."

"Yeah, back when I was a Sheriff I was exchanging a few rounds of lead with them. Not sure that makes for a good start to any platonic relationship."

Oswald waved a pudgy hand as though this was of little consideration. "It's a… colourful group, that's for sure. They ain't just thieves. There's a few ain't so much gud'uns for sure, but some of them are mercs similar to you."

"That doesn't give me confidence, Oswald."

"Well maybe it don't. But you're sure as hell just gonna have to deal with it. Same as they'll have to deal with you. We're all friends on this expedition. You… them… you're all gonna get on together like peas in a pod. Money makes strange bedfellows, Lawman."

 _It makes enemies is what it makes,_ Lawman thought to himself, but he'd got it now. He'd caught the bug. He was hooked and Oswald, _the dirty bastard,_ could see it in the gleam in his eyes. Lawman was in.

After some thought, Lawman leaned back in his chair and considered Oswald. "Let's just suppose now that I go ahead and accept this shindig of yours, Oswald. How we goin' to get to a place we know nothin' of?"

"The wanderer who found evidence of the motherload of data files, he'd found a vault further down the Mississippi. That's where you start. I've organised a boat. Pretty little thing; the Mayweather, they call her. It's a refurbished old world steam boat and she hums like a charm. Lawman, your first half of this expedition is goin' to be a cruise down to that research facility. That vault. And find clues that will lead you to the mother of all tech files. Failing that locate Lost Orleans by some other means."

"How much is this thing worth?"

"If black gold and uranium had a love child how much do you think it'd be worth? It's worth a lot, Lawman. A hell of a lot."

"And if we run into the Brotherhood of Steel?"

"Ah ha. That I leave to your discretion. I will of course wash my hands of any incident. I don't know you. Bad for business, you understand."

There were so many more questions, but only one more that Lawman asked. His hands itched for the liquor again, but his focus remained latched on the smoking silhouette of Oswald in front of him. "The wastelander – The one who found this evidence – where is he now?"

"Shot dead." Oswald's reply was blunt. "Find me the data file, Lawman. Pull it out of that swamp infested, overgrown hornet's nest of a graveyard and bring it back to me. Make us rich men. And make sure it don't fall into the wrong hands…"

…and the tendril of meandering smoke from Oswald's cigar rose up like the Mississippi to the ceiling, like a moonlit path to some question that for now would remain unanswered.

Oswald's eyes gleamed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Scene 2**

It was later that day, close to sundown, when Oswald set up the gathering place where everyone involved were to meet, and Lawman had spent the time between his palaver with Oswald and now preparing his equipment – packing some food, oiling his Colt 45, that sort of thing. The rest of the time was spent staring off into the distance, listening to the bustle of strangers outside, and failing to shake the foreboding feeling that this would be the last time he'd see home. When dusk finally began to settle Lawman left his shack and made his way to the saloon.

The dusty street meandered ahead of Lawman like one of the drunks struggling to clamber their way home, slipping between the ramshackle buildings jutting from its sides. Dim lanterns that swung like hanged men in the breeze spilled their flickering light against the encroaching dark as Lawman paced his way up the road. He wore his trusty leather duster, a well-worn thing, as worn as the road in front of him and the same ochre colour. It whisked itself in the gentle breeze as the scent of booze and drunken wretches wafted over from a saloon the other end of town. Lawman passed by armed caravan guards who lay wasted on haystacks in the stables next to their brahmins, gently snoring as young pickpockets egged each other on into nicking what they could from them. One, the youngest and most naïve amongst them, a mere slip of a lad in his mid-teens, was dared to go forward and steal one of the guards' guns. Lawman could tell from the corner of his sharp eyes that the guard wasn't asleep. The man had a cowboy hat pulled over his eyes but there were no snores emanating from him, and his body seemed tenser than the others – like a poised snake. Lawman didn't see the kid's attempt as he strode past, but the ringing shot that resounded through the street and the hasty scattering of feet let him know the result.

Lawman didn't look back. He just kept walking as he fumbled for his whiskey flask and allowed himself a bitter swig.

Lawman had been a wary resident of the Post for a good twenty years. That's twenty years of hard living, mostly hand to mouth, amidst the rough sorts, the screw-ups, the rotten bastards that shared the dingy huddle of log cabins and shacks that composed the only flicker of civilised living for many miles around. Beyond the town's perimeter, beyond the palisade and the ominous watchtowers leftover from when the place was a prison compound, was nought but the dusty trail west and the sprawling road east. Everything in between was hostile territory, where anything that approached you wanted one of two things; food or drugs, and often would skin your hide for both. In the distance some way away, Lawman could still see the cells he used to lock up those who crossed the line that separated the ugly from the downright rotten. It was a thin line for sure and often not kept clean by no one, but Lawman always kept faith that there was a line, a line that separated people from the feral ghouls, those hollowed out husks of pre-war humans that aimlessly roamed the wastes. Sometimes it might be hard to see that line but it was there, and Lawman in the past had done his best to steer on the right side of it and to bang up or shoot down anyone who crossed it. Child slavery, people smuggling from the tribes, drug trafficking and gang warfare were all things that Lawman had spent half his life gunning down. But, like a hideous hydra, when you cut off one head of these shady dealings, more would rear up from the murk of the criminal underworld to take their place.

Lawman turned his gaze from those empty and desolate cells. The concrete compound, or what was left of it, slipped behind the cabins as he turned a corner – They no longer mattered. The past no longer mattered. He had to keep reminding himself of that. But those cells amidst the prison ruins were still there, unused and empty like the hollow eye sockets of a crumbling skull half buried in the earth. Like so many things in this world, law and order had moved on. Business ruled the roost. As time passed, it became more profitable to enlist the troublemakers than to lock them up or waste bullets on them, and so Lawman had slowly been sidelined just as Oswald and his burgeoning empire of caravan networks rose. Lawman had found himself adapting to a new order of business, a new way of running things, and he'd survived. That was all as could be said of it.

Being a scavver had its perks. And he had to admit that the experience he'd gained as sheriff came in mighty handy. He knew the local area and some of the old world cities beyond it – many used to be where the tribes and gangs holed up. He had already been to cities like St Louis and he and his posse, from once upon a time, had dealt with the slavers back there, when there was still the gleam of youth in his eyes. So when the time had come and he had to hang up his sheriff hat and take on a different profession, becoming a scavver had been as easy as slipping his foot into a stirrup. He knew the best marks, he knew where the dangers were, he had his big iron strapped to his hip, and after St Louis… After all that happened in St Louis, he had his Pip Boy. All he had to do was pay no mind to his conscience for as long as he could stomach, keep his head down and play the new game in town. Crime was reined in by the corrupt influence of big business and became organised, predictable and profitable. The line, if ever there was a line, became just another blurred smear of blood in the dust.

"Back again pilgrim?"

Lawman drifted out of his trance as the dulcet tones of Velvet's voice dripped like honey into his ears. He stood motionless as his hand rested on one of the batwing doors to the saloon. For the first time Lawman faintly noticed the plunking of the piano keys emanating from inside amidst the thrum of voices and chatter.

He turned and looked at her. A faint, coquettish smile played on Velvet's lips as she leaned against the wall, cigarette smoke pluming from her mouth as she exhaled. She was short but was pretty in her own individual way. In the dim lantern glow Lawman could see the pale scars concealed with powder and her auburn hair was mid-length and slightly tangled, seemingly left unbrushed and unchecked. However, her body amply filled the enticing crimson dress she wore, and with her silk gloves on she looked every part the old world dame. Many a man found themselves swayed by Velvet's charms and gravitated towards her like a moth towards an open flame.

That, as it turned out, was in fact a pretty damn good analogy of Velvet Derevoir.

"Cashed in on any suckers yet, Velvet?" Lawman replied drily.

"Just what are you saying, Lawman?" She replied with playfully feigned indignation. There was a twinkle in her eye as her delicate hand rested over her bosom. "Can't a lady make a livin' in this town no'more?"

"Cut the shit, Velvet." Lawman replied, but indifferently, with no serious edge in his voice. He knew how to play this game too. "Half the town knows you girls steal from any customer too blind drunk to notice."

Velvet greeted this with a devilish smile.

"A lady has her secrets, Lawman. And I'm sure you're not one to slight a woman's honour."

"You're right. I ain't that," Lawman admitted. He turned from the door and joined her, leaning against the wall of the saloon and gazing out at the town as dusk enveloped it. "I could never prove it while I was sheriff nor did I ever particularly care to. If some stupid pricks lost their money because they were careless then what was I supposed to do about it. Ain't no cure for carelessness." Lawman sighed. "You gotta smoke?"

"Depends? You buyin'?"

"Not you, nor one of your girls neither, fine as you all may be. I might be interested in some information though, if you're sellin'."

Velvet wordlessly handed Lawman a cigarette and lit it with an ornate lighter. Lawman puffed on it once or twice before exhaling deeply, feeling a mite more relaxed than before.

"Nice ornate lighter you got there. Silver right? Which caravaner did you bed to get that piece of merch?"

Velvet shrugged. "Wa'n't me who bedded the guy. You'd have to ask Marilyn. You know I work mostly as their mistress these days. Not that I don't enjoy the odd tumble or two for those that have the right coin."

Lawman's face was bathed in the soft orange glow of his cigarette as he puffed on it some more. He turned his eyes to the night sky, allowing the burn of the smoke in his lungs to warm him, before he released it to the chilly air.

"Have any o' the boys at the NCR embassy been bothering you girls lately?"

"We keep out of their way," She replied with a shrug. "We don't bother them and they don't bother us. We don't go knocking on trouble's door like we used to and they ain't stupid enough to try and get our ring shut down. The whole damn Post would be up in arms if they did. I mean can you imagine? What are the fellas supposed to spend their caps on if not keeping their peckers wet?"

Lawman offered a non-committal shrug. "Beats me."

"The hotshots over at the embassy like to think they wear some big boots around the place, but they have enough sense to know on which side their bread is buttered. They ain't gonna come gatecrashing on us no more."

"You think one of these days they're gonna send troops to this place?"

"What for?"

"To keep the tribals under control, stop them from looting on the caravans. I heard them talking about the raids for a while now. Might be a growing concern o' theirs."

"What?" Velvet scoffed. "NCR troopers? This far east? They're already stretched thin as it is with Cascadia and whatever remains of the Legion. They bring soldiers here and the caravaners ain't gonna like it. The last thing they want are NCR troopers breathing down their necks. Besides, the big caravan companies practically run the show anyway – at least where trade is concerned, and they all prefer hiring mercenaries to being strapped down by regulation. Trust me."

"There might be another reason they want to send troops our way…"

Velvet gave him a glance, intrigued. "Oh? And just what might that be?"

Lawman didn't offer an answer. Velvet was useful to him for gleaning intelligence about various goings on, but if she was useful to him then she was useful to others too – for the right price. He'd relied on her for info when he was sheriff and she'd always proven to be a reliable mine of information. Every word that escaped men's lips, either on the bar room floor or under the covers, eventually reached Velvet's ears. He didn't feel divulging the details of what Oswald had told him would prove wise though. The last thing he needed was more people catching wind of the tech file – whatever the damned hell it proved to be. Better to keep his mouth shut. In any case, Lawman now knew that Velvet hadn't heard anything about the NCR's involvement, and that was just fine.

Instead Lawman changed the topic. "So what's word around town? Anything new goin' down."

Velvet dropped the stub of her cigarette to the floor and ground it out with her foot. Her manner immediately dropped from playful to business-like. It was so sudden it might have startled anyone who didn't know her, but Lawman was well acquainted with the two faces of the mistress who called herself Velvet.

"For the most part," she said, "things are the same as they've always been. Word is some gang's been involved in smuggling some strange woman from one of the tribes south of here – but I ain't seen hide nor hair of them or her."

"So probably not true then?"

"Or all hush hush. But yeah, most likely some guys trying to make believe so's t'have an interestin' story to tell." She turned to face Lawman with a grave sincerity. "If you really want to know what's new in town you only have to look inside." She jabbed a thumb at the batwing doors to the saloon and Lawman peeked his head around to peer inside. His eyes settled on all the usual suspects, howling with laughter and making merry around the piano, others slouched by their drinks in the grim candlelight. But over in the corner, in a shadowy booth all to themselves, were a gang of dubious strangers. Most wore leather armour. All were armed.

"They've been asking after you," Velvet said gravely.

"No kidding?"

"You don't sound surprised. You in trouble or something?"

"No," Lawman responded pulling his head back from the doorway and finishing his cigarette. "No more than usual. I've been expecting to meet some new friends here."

Once, again Velvet turned her cool cat-like gaze to Lawman, dishing him a piercing look of intrigue. "You got a new mission, ain't ya."

"Yeah."

"A big mission."

"Could be."

"You goin' to St Louis again?"

"Not a chance," Lawman flicked the cigarette stub away, a smouldering spark snuffed out in the dark. He didn't like mention of that place. Not ever. "See ya around."

Before she could say another word, he reached into his pockets and handed her a small pouch of caps. "And thanks for the info, Velvet."

She wanted to ask him more, Lawman knew. Information and secrets were one of her biggest trades after all. Well, best to keep her wanting more. It made a nice turnaround from how dealings with Velvet usually went down, and having the upper hand, knowing something she didn't, put a faint smile on his face. He stepped through the batwing doors and strode past the drunken revellers to the bar. As he pulled up to the counter he could feel the eyes of the strangers on him, their stares burning the back of his neck. He didn't turn their way, not at first anyway. Instead he knocked on the counter to attract the attention of the barkeep.

"The usual, Jimmy," Lawman said as the man turned to face him.

Jimmy was a stocky man in his early forties with a severe limp, although he was bald enough and grim enough to look like he was on the other side of fifty-six. Lawman only had trouble with the guy once when he was sheriff, back when Jimmy thought he'd make a quick buck participating in a smuggling ring. The bullet he got to the lower leg for speaking out of turn was enough to convince him to leave that business for good, although he hadn't wished to be too involved with it in the first place. Crime had a way of selling you on the good stuff, like easy caps and excitement, while omitting the nastier stuff that happened further down the road, so to speak. Jimmy confessed to Lawman and then Lawman had shot down most of the smugglers when he caught up with the bastards at their base. Jimmy felt like he owed him ever since and so this saloon became Lawman's haunt. He trusted the barkeep, he trusted most of the clientele, and most nights he could let his hair down a little.

This night was different.

"Here on business?" Jimmy grunted in hushed tones as he poured Lawman a glass of his best whiskey. He shot a glance over at the armed thugs sat around the booth. Their watchful eyes glinted like cold steel in the shadows.

"How'd you know?"

"You got that look on your face."

Lawman grinned. "Do I now?"

"I don't want no shootin', Lawman. You promised me that. Remember?"

"Don't worry, Jimmy," Lawman took a swig of the soft amber liquid. It hit the back of his throat like fluid fire, just the way he liked it. "It ain't that sort of business. It's just talk."

"Yeah, well, they don't look like the talking type to me. They look like the 'hang them with their own lower intestine' type."

"I hope not," Lawman said as he downed the rest of his drink and slid the glass back to Jimmy. "They're s'posed to be my partners."

"Them?"

But Lawman had already turned and left the counter, heading for the band of road warriors circled around the dark table in the booth, a single sputtering candle illuminating them just barely. There were three of them sat there about the table. One kept a close eye as Lawman drew near, this was the one who spoke first.

"You the scavver?" He was the burliest man of the group, the one sat closest to where Lawman stood. His voice was gravelly and coarse. His face was coarser. With an array of scars, crooked nose, closely cropped dark hair and powerful, scabbed fists the man looked like he was brought up in the fighting pits _._ "We were told you'd probably arrive last," he said. He motioned to Lawman's pip-boy. "Big man said you'd be wearin' one o' those."

Lawman took in the other two men. One looked to originate from one of the Dixie tribes south-east of here, although Lawman couldn't be sure – wrong armour but right hair. The guy wore tight fitting leather biker gear that hugged his wiry frame, nothing like tribal gear, and had tattoos laced around his knuckles. But he did have long dirty blonde locks that fell past his shoulders, partially weaved into battle dreads, just like the dixie tribals that dwelled south of Bruise – a 'merchant' city located by the Tennessee river, currently lorded over by the Eastern chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel. He sat the other side of the booth eyeing Lawman with an unnerving thief's curiosity.

The other man, a tall and dark figure dressed in black, was hunched like one of the shadows climbing the wall behind them and didn't so much as turn to face Lawman. He was sat in the corner but Lawman was certain the guy had been the first to spot him. Now that he was here though, the rough shaven and dangerous looking man was paying more attention to the edge of the Bowie knife he held just above the sputtering candle. The flame licked it gently, like a kitten lapping the blood from its master's blade, and the light traced along its length like a shimmering sunset slicing across the throat of the horizon.

"Yeah," Lawman replied as he shifted into the seat opposite the pit fighter. "I'm the scavver. Name's Lawman."

Sitting in the booth felt like sitting in a world apart from the rest of the saloon. The sound of the piano and the drunken revelry seemed dampened somehow. It sunk into the background as he slipped within the clandestine gathering. They were well out of sight here. Well out of mind. Like castaways.

"Lawman?" The Dixie retorted. "You fuckin' with us?"

"How'd a scavver get a name like that, _Lawman_?" The pit fighter chorused. A dangerous glint sparked in his eye that Lawman didn't care for, like the sputtering of a near empty lighter. Lawman guessed Oswald hadn't told them every detail of who'd they be sharing their voyage with. Probably just as well. He found himself wondering just how much they knew about each other. If Lawman had to guess, these guys had never crossed paths before. Each seemed to hail from a completely different place. You had the Pit fighter for whom Lawman could make out an accent from… _the Commonwealth_? And then the Dixie, who Lawman could now tell really was a Dixie thanks to his accent, must have come here through that scum barrel of a city they call Bruise.

Bruise used to be known as Knoxville, before all the nukes gave it the old _one two_. That was when Knoxville got thrown a few ' _knocks_ ' too many. Then it had been aptly renamed Bruise. Bruise, the city where the rubble and ruins of old Knoxville formed the blackened maze of catacombs underneath the sprawling urban jungle that had been erected on top… just like a bruise swelling on the face of the earth.

"Well?" The pit fighter grew impatient.

Lawman drew himself back, leaning leisurely against the back of the leather seat. He wished he still had that cigarette Velvet had given him. He felt like drawing in on that sweet smoke and lighting his lungs with nicotine now more than ever. No matter. He remembered back to the smoke outside and imagined he'd just pulled a draft, like Oswald always did with his cigar. He considered the Pit fighter opposite him and fixed him with a cool gaze.

"You see that fella over there, behind the counter?" Lawman asked nonchalantly, motioning to Jimmy as he dished out more drinks to the clamorous clientele, their banter muffled within the booth.

"Yeah, what of him?"

"I saved his life once. He got caught up in some bad business. Now, I don't mean criminal business, it _was_ criminal what they were doin', but that's beside the point. I mean it was a _bad_ business. The sort of business where you look at a guy funny and he pops your head like a cherry with one pull of the trigger. Where the guy leading the crew is a sadistic piece o' trash who likes kids. _That_ kind of business. So I helped him out. I wasted a few guys – _I wasted a lot of guys_ – and got blood on my hands. Ever since, he's felt like he owes me. I didn't ask no favours from him. But I guess the town around here started seeing me as a sheriff figure. So they call me Lawman." Lawman gave a little shrug as though he didn't give a fuck. He knew full well that he hadn't just been a sheriff _figure_. He knew full well that that wasn't how he got his name. He was lying. But his history was something these people didn't need to know. "Who am I to shoot that down?" he asked. "Can't help it if I have a nice streak."

The pit fighter sized Lawman up for a moment and then grunted. Lawman saw that he relaxed a little. Obviously something about sheriffs put him on edge, and Lawman had to ask himself just how Oswald had gone about hiring these men. Meanwhile, the tall, dark figure with the Bowie knife remained silent, watching the flame as he rotated his deadly blade, almost as delicately as though he were turning a dial on a radio. He was listening. Lawman could tell he was listening. But he hadn't said a word. Not yet, anyway.

"Do _you_ have any idea what all this is about?" the pit fighter inquired gruffly.

"What _what_ is about?" Lawman asked. "You mean the mission?"

"What else?" The wiry Dixie piped up.

"Oswald hasn't given you the sales pitch, then?" Lawman was surprised by this. Perhaps he shouldn't have been.

"The clatter of cold, hard caps was all the sales pitch I needed," Pit fighter intoned. "Normally I ask for a run down before I accept payment, but I wasn't about to turn down that kind of money."

"I owe Oswald a favour," Dixie supplied after they both turned his way. "I'm being paid too," he added hastily, not wishing to be outdone, "but my payment comes after. As a share of what the expedition makes."

"Same as me then," Lawman replied.

"Same as all of us, I expect," Pit fighter returned.

"Hang on a cotton pickin' minute, you mean to say you're getting paid extra?" Dixie blurted.

Pit fighter just shrugged without a care.

"Son of a bitch!" Dixie slammed his fist on the table with a curse. "Fuckin' Oswald, man! I knew I should have asked for something up front!"

"Easy, Leicester," Pit fighter rumbled. He looked across to the dark man whose Bowie knife froze as he clutched it tight. Irritation might have creased his brow just a little as the light of the candle almost flickered out. He shot the Dixie, Leicester, a look. It wasn't a grimace, or a flash of repugnance. There wasn't any expression. It was just deadpan. But it was enough.

"H-hey," Leicester placated, "sorry, Slater. I didn't mean no…"

But the man clad in black wasn't interested in what Leicester had to say. He just silently resumed whatever it was he was doing once again.

"So, how do you guys know each other?" Lawman turned to ask the pit fighter after a disquieting moment.

"Huh?"

"We don't know each other," Pit fighter replied. "We only met when we arrived here. He arrived first," he motioned to the man clad in black, "said his name was 'Slater'. That's Leicester and I'm Vyacheslav. 'Vyach' for short. Other than that, we know fuck all. Never seen each other before in all our lives – as far as I know, anyway."

"You're from the commonwealth, right?"

"Maybe. What's it to you?"

"I noticed your accent, that's all. And you're…" Lawman turned to Leicester "…Are you from Bruise?"

Leicester looked from the pit fighter Vyach and then back to Lawman. He shrugged. "Not exactly. Pretty close by though. It's no secret. After all, I'm named after my place of birth: _Leicester,_ over in North Carolina. Why?"

"Different places." It was Slater.

"What?"

"We all come from different places," the brooding man in black intoned with a deep and smooth voice – a steady voice. It was a voice as steady as the poised trigger finger of an experienced killer. He never turned to look at them once. A crescent of light flashed along the edge of the Bowie knife. "Different skills. Different origins. Different contacts. Different places."

"Different people," Lawman finished. "Completely different."

"Why? Why go to the trouble to hire from all over?" Leicester asked.

"Divide et impera," Slater responded.

"The fuck?"

There was a moment of befuddlement, of searching glances, between Leicester and Vyach. Only Lawman fixed Slater with a steady gaze before he answered them in an even tone.

"Divide and rule," he translated. He looked upon the dark man before him from a new and disturbing perspective. "Caesar's Legion, _right_?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Scene 3**

The others fixed Slater with the same unnerved stare, their eyes clasped upon the shadowy figure still hunched over the candle. The thing was, they all knew that name: _Caesar_. Everyone from one side of this hell-blasted continent to the other had heard of the atrocities committed by the Legion. Such rumours had become enshrined as legend in every speakeasy from Shady Sands to Boston. People spread chilling word of how Caesar's Legion had paved a path of conquest along the Mojave, had stormed the west and almost beaten the NCR, and, worst of all, everyone knew the stories of what happened to those unfortunate foes the Legion captured. Caesar had transformed eighty-six disparate tribes of nomads, raiders and addicts into a disciplined, ruthless and near unstoppable war machine that pillaged, raped, and scorched their way through to Hoover Dam, only halted by the miracle that was Caesar's death and the most desperate of struggles. Even with Caesar six feet under, his prized legate, Lanius, had carried over his insane mission. Under his iron fist the legion had almost secured the dam, its passage through to the NCR heartlands, and would have succeeded if it weren't for the abrupt birth and subsequent intervention of the independent New Vegas Free State at the hands of some…well, some _nobody_ – A fucking courier who seized control of an army of police robots, if word was true. That made for an even crazier story.

Whatever the case was, Legate Lanius was killed in action, the Legion was thrown back from the precipice of victory and no more than a few months later the entire thing had shattered into civil war. The Legion was no more. But what remained was the uneasiness. The foreboding sense that time is a flat circle and what happened once, could happen again. If one man could unite nearly ninety tribes and threaten the major power of the west coast, then what was stopping some other plucky young upstart, some wild eyed ideologue, from uniting as many tribes, if not more, elsewhere. It wasn't something that the politicos, the generals, the leaders of developed communities wished to face, but nevertheless what remained of civilization was teetering on a razor edge. Considering the stockpile of Nukes before the war though, perhaps that was something that had never truly changed.

"You're Legion," Lawman repeated.

Slater testily ran his tongue over his front teeth. A bitter smile cracked upon his thin lips. "I _was_ Legion," he stated. His smooth, low voice remained unsettlingly steady and reasonable. "I commanded an elite squad during the second battle of Hoover Dam. We lost. The Legion broke. And now I'm a mercenary." He flipped his knife and sheathed it. He fixed Lawman with an unflinching gaze utterly absent of any remorse. "Gun for hire. Assassin. Whatever keeps me away from the Headhunters and NCR Rangers foolish enough to try and claim my bounty. This job came up. Offered a way out. And I took it."

"You know that there's an NCR Embassy here, right?" Lawman replied.

Slater returned that with a devil-may-care grin. "Yeah? And how many soldiers? How many patrols?" He asked, his voice never once losing that even tone. "And how many fat, corrupt bureaucrats waiting for their slice of the cake? Too many. You think they're going to turn down a three hundred dollar reason to avoid more work and more trouble? They're all too eager to look the other way. And besides, I'm under Oswald's protection now. And crossing him seldom proves profitable..."

"Did you hurt people?"

"Of course."

"Innocent people?"

"Hundreds."

"Kids?"

But Slater only levelled Lawman with that same steady gaze, and a chilling smile, a smile that was almost handsome in a sickening kinda way, spread across his ruggedly dark face. A dimple creased his right cheek. Lawman felt his gaze drawn to that black spot like a prisoner drawn down a dark tunnel, never to return. "You sure you're not a sheriff, Lawman? 'Cause you sure are starting to sound like one."

Lawman met his gaze with a steady one of his own. Lawman's eyes glinted like steel.

"No, Slater," he replied, his own voice low now, matching Slater's. It was even. It was reasonable. Calm. "I just like to know who I'm workin' with."

Slater leaned back appraisingly. "Well, now you know."

Moments uneasily passed by. It was Leicester who eventually broke the crackling silence.

"Shit, are we the entire crew?" he blurted. "Because we've been waiting for ages. When's everyone else gonna arrive?"

"I dunno," Lawman replied, suddenly wishing he had a drink. He looked over to the bar longingly but kept his itching hands hidden from Slater's shrewd gaze. He needn't have worried, however. Slater had extracted his Bowie knife from its sheath and began holding it over the flame again, letting the fire curl around its edge, its glow caressing the blade.

"You didn't answer my question," Vyach suddenly interjected, turning to face him.

Lawman's brow furrowed. "What question?"

"Why have we been gathered here? What's the run down?"

"Oh. The run down. Right..."

He checked before he said anything to make sure no one was listening in. He spotted Velvet, now over at the far side of the saloon, watching him intently. But she was too far away to overhear anything being said, and she looked like she had her hands full with two desperados vying for her attention. He offered her prying eyes a faint, knowing smile. It was half-hearted but, for a brief moment, she returned it with a wry smile of her own. It was a wise expression. One that, all at once, seemed to say, ' _I may not know what you're up to, Lawman. But I know trouble when I see it. Do you?'_ Then, Lawman turned away from her, took in a heavy breath and leaned forward.

"Look," he said softly, "all I've been told is that we're searching for a tech file that's more valuable and more expensive than a lifetime of nights out on the New Vegas Strip. It's very rare - very dangerous in the wrong hands – and desired by anyone with a fuckin' army. It's being hunted not just by us, but by others too…" Vyach and Leicester both hung on his every word. Lawman let them hang for a moment as he felt the weight of what he was about to say next. "And it's located somewhere… somewhere in the bowels of the Great Bayous of the Deep South..."

"Deep South, _but that place_ …" Leicester murmured. Slater's knife froze above the candle as his dark gaze creeped Lawman's direction.

"…In Lost Orleans," Lawman finished.

" _Fuck_ ," Leicester intoned with a hollow voice.

Vyach leaned back in his seat. Understanding seemed to glint in his eyes as he turned with a slight grimace towards the folks clamouring around the piano like fools – carefree, drunken fools. "That settles it then. I knew there'd be a catch. The big man wants to send us to the Big _Not-So-fuckin'-_ Easy. _Wherever the hell it is_."

"You reconsidering Oswald's offer?" Lawman asked.

Vyach grunted. "No," he said at last. "I never back out of a deal. Especially not when the caps are paid up front. Still," he turned to face Lawman, "I don't like it. I don't like it one bit."

"Are you kidding? Fucking Lost Orleans?" Leicester queried disbelievingly.

Lawman shrugged. "Yeah. Lost Orleans."

"Oswald said we'd be travellin' the Mississippi," Leicester hissed as he drew out a pocket knife and began digging it into the table, "but I thought he meant north, man. Fuckin' asshole said nothing about heading into the Deep South." His eyes flashed dangerously in the glow of the sputtering candle. "Fuckin' Oswald, Man. Fuck!" he cursed under his breath. "Thought Oswald was cool. Thought it'd just be another job."

"It _is_ just another job." A new voice rolled over the company, authoritative and clipped, accompanied by a regular series of sharp _clicks_ each time a walking cane stabbed at the saloon's bare wooden floor.

Lawman, Leicester and Vyach all swivelled their heads to the smartly dressed newcomer as he slowly drew himself up to their shadowy booth. It was a middle-aged, bespectacled black gentleman, grey streaks peppered throughout the short and tight curls of his hair. He was tall- _ish_ , and Lawman noticed a proud and upstanding manner defiantly exuded from him. He did, however, seem to depend on the ebony cane he carried for walking due to a gimp leg; he leant on it whilst he lightly scraped his right shoe along the ground. He wore rimless spectacles that flashed for a moment as he drew closer, and a smart, nay – immaculate, white suit with a black tie tucked under his waistcoat. All things considered the man definitely made an impression. Lawman couldn't say if it was the _right_ impression though, given present company.

"It _is_ just another job," he repeated, looking upon each of them with an appraising glint in his eye. He stepped from the light of Jimmy's saloon and pulled forward into the shadows. "The only thing that's different is the _locale_."

"Who the _fuck_ are _you_?" Vyach retorted. Lawman thought it was a fair question, even if it was put bluntly.

The man took a moment to draw his right leg forward with the help of one of his gloved hands, then turned back to them wearing a business-like smile; a smile that didn't reach his dark eyes.

"My name," he said in even tones, "is Mr Kees. The pleasure is all mine, I'm sure."

"You gonna sit down, _Mr Kees_?" Vyach replied distrustfully.

"No need. I shall stand." His response was curt. "I'm here as Oswald's representative for this expedition, and it's _my_ job to oversee you along the journey and to explain our mission before we depart. _Not_ _Lawman's_."

"It's not as if I was told not to tell them, Kees," Lawman countered.

Kees ignored him. "Most of you will not have been informed of the details of our trip. There is no need to be alarmed by this, as telling you prematurely before you accepted the deal Oswald put on the table would have jeopardised the secrecy that is vital to our undertaking."

"Well?" Slater asked, his deep voice betraying nothing but an unsettling calmness. " _Are_ we bound for Lost Orleans?"

"Lost Orleans is further down the line. Our first stop will be at a vault we know of from the man who found evidence of the tech file. This was where he first discovered its existence. The Mayweather, the steamboat we'll be using to carry us down there, has been outfitted with an old world device that uses radio waves to detect underground complexes. _Don't_ ask me how it works. I don't deal with the science side of things. I just make sure everything on the ground operates smoothly."

"What are you hoping to find there?" Vyach asked.

"Whatever it was that the traveller who preceded us found. And hopefully a map that will guide us to where Lost Orleans really is. It was discovered by him that many vaults share a link – a sort of electronic network spanning certain regions. Some were private – overseer's use only. A rare few were public. Yet more were a secret kept even from the eyes of the overseers themselves. Either way there's a chance we can find the location of the tech file through this southern vault: the road towards the accumulation of centuries worth of clandestine data, pioneering pre-war tech that probably broke every law and ethical boundary…" Suddenly, his voice took on an edge that was deadly serious. "… and a leaden weight that could tip the scales of our geopolitics irrevocably. _If,_ "he added, "clasped in the wrong hands."

"How do we know this thing even exists, anyway? All we know is some dusty old prospector stumbled upon a vault and made up a load of hoo-hah…" Leicester interjected.

"It wasn't made up, Leicester." Kees' reply was brusque. "The man knew things only the Brotherhood of Steel, or the top brass of the NCR could know about. Things only a select few know about. A backwater prospector like him couldn't have fathomed the significance of what he found. He discovered that there exists a central node, a collection point, for all Vault info. That every vault in existence ultimately feeds into this one place, and none more directly than the one he uncovered. Imagine it! A reservoir of data on a scale surpassing the Lost Library of Alexandria in importance. Our petty factions and communities scattered across the continent, play-pretending at war, feebly mimicking antiquated republics and bygone nations, still haven't discovered even a fraction of all the vaults out there. Most of them killed off their own occupants through one means or another and remain dormant. Lost to time. Imagine all the potential advances that lie untapped, waiting for us to find them. Imagine how, with one discovery, we could end this modern dark age, just like _that_!" He snapped his fingers. "Like switching on a light, or igniting a match."

" _Or lighting a fuse_ …" Lawman intoned. Then, in a cynical tone, he added, "So you're saying that Oswald is the great philanthropist who will make this all happen? Is that right, Kees?"

"No one ever said helping humanity didn't have to be profitable, Lawman," Kees replied in an equally dry tone. "We're on the cusp of something great. It's something that will make each of you _very_ rich men –fabulously wealthy beyond your wildest dreams. But we must act now, and we must act _fast_."

Lawman noticed that as soon as Kees mentioned riches the others around the table instantly perked up. Leicester drew forward, Vyach sat upright and Slater's cruel eyes gleamed. He wasn't surprised of course. Only dismayed by how easily they were swayed. No, actually, he was dismayed by how easily _he_ had been swayed. That was the truth of it. No good feeling 'holier than thou'. He was as caught up in this fervour just as much as the rest of these bastards. Why else would he be here?

"The five of you," Kees continued, "each have your own set of skills that will prove invaluable in this undertaking. I don't need to tell you that you'll need each other to succeed, no matter what your personal ambitions happen to be."

"Five of us?" Leicester sounded surprised, glancing around the table. "There's only four of us sat here…"

Kees' expression didn't change, but his glasses did flash for a moment as he said, " _Chiquita_." He waited a moment in silence as Lawman, Vyach and Leicester exchanged nonplussed looks. "Chiquita," Kees continued mildly, "please come down from there."

Vyach and Lawman both jumped to their feet, startled hands darting for their guns, as suddenly there appeared a shapely leg dangling from somewhere above. Tight leather pants stretched over toned thighs and a high heeled boot entered Lawman's field of vision. Leicester jolted to one side.

" _Fuckin' mother of Christ_!" Vyach gasped. The three of them gaped as a curvy figure leapt down from the tenebrous rafters that criss-crossed overhead, her boots clapping upon the hardwood floor at the far end of the booth. She turned smoothly on the spot, a poncho draped over her shapely chest. Her penetrating eyes scanned the assembled company. Then she slowly and deliberately sank into her seat, spreading her arms wide over the back. She demurely crossed her legs. Her insolent eyes came to flash Kees' way.

"I was comfortable where I was, you know, hon'," she replied wistfully. She had a strange lilt to her voice, which might have been close to a Hispanic accent. _That_ , along with the savagely sharp Spanish navaja strapped to her upper thigh, the deadly six-shooters, and the poncho spelled only one thing for Lawman: _Vaqueros_.

It was only Slater at the table who never showed any surprise. There was no wry smile, no matter how slight, that showed in the candlelight on the ex-legionary's thin lips. He was poker-faced as he at last sheathed his blade. He did it surreptitiously without most people noticing, but that was when it suddenly dawned on Lawman why Slater had been idling with his Bowie knife all along, slowly twisting it over the flame, like a patient hunter savouring the act of skewering his prey. He had caught the sly vaqueros in his blade's reflection all along.

He had been keeping his eye on her.

How had Lawman not noticed her? Scratch that, how had he not even taken notice of the rafters criss-crossing in the darkness above them as soon as he stepped into the saloon? He was a scavver. And before that he was a sheriff. It was his job to detect things like this. It was dark, but he shouldn't have missed a trick like that. As he sidled back down into his seat and settled uneasily, he felt a tot of cold realisation run through him as he was made aware, for the first time, that he'd grown careless. He would never have made a mistake like that when he was sheriff. Not checking all your surroundings was such a rookie error. But, no, that was being too kind. It wasn't just that he'd grown careless. He glanced at everyone else's hands. Then he turned to his own hand for a moment. He looked down at his battered, worn and callused hand as it twitched, twitching for the liquor. No it wasn't just that he'd grown careless – he had grown _old._

"How fucking long have you been there," Vyach snarled. While Lawman had sat back down, Vyach was still standing. His hand clutched the clasp of his holster.

"Long enough," she replied nonchalantly. "Long enough to hear what I needed to hear. To learn about each of you."

"Why hide from us?" Lawman asked. "Why not, I don't know, learn about us just by askin'? The conventional and socially agreeable way, as some call it."

"We could have thought you were a spy," Leicester said gravely. "Coulda shot you down…"

"You can't shoot down what you don't know is there, hon'," she riposted. "I wanted to know just who I was dealing with before I rushed into your little Q and A session. Sorry, if you don't like that. Too bad."

Vyach, still disgruntled, nevertheless dropped his hand from his holster and lowered himself back into his seat. "Next time you gain the drop on me, I'll…"

"…Never know what hit you," Chiquita finished for him, returning his glare with eyes as hard as ice.

"Please," Kees interjected, "We're not here to squabble. Chiquita is a professional assassin, one from the Vaqueros that serve many of the Freehold Baronies spread across the Texan Prairie."

Lawman knew that the Freehold Barons were the post apocalypse's take on feudal lords, reigning over scarce fortified towns and copious ranches further to the west of the point where the Mississippi splintered into an ever shifting chain of dark bayous that proved near impossible to navigate. The poncho wearing, gun-toting knights that swore fealty to these rogue Barons were known commonly by the name 'Vaqueros'. Normally, they'd ride steeds into battle, firing their carbine repeaters and six shooters from horseback as they raided neighbouring ranches for brahmin, bighorns, or else just for blood. Lawman guessed Chiquita was less like a hardened, horse-riding battle maiden, and more like a clever and cunning femme fatale. Lawman didn't really know much about the isolated communities on the prairies, very few people did. So he didn't know about the full range of differing classes and ranks of Vaqueros there really were. The Freehold Baronies mostly kept to themselves, bickered amongst themselves, trained amongst themselves, and fought and killed amongst themselves. Anyone with enough sense just left them to it.

Vyach grunted. "Fine," he muttered grudgingly. "I take it we begin as soon as possible. I'm all set."

"So am I," Lawman concurred.

"The Mayweather has already been set up and is docked by the jetty awaiting our arrival," Kees replied. He seemed pleased by the eagerness to begin. Lawman caught a faint smile showing upon his lips, but so slight so as to almost not be there. It somehow unsettled him. "If you follow me I can take you to the cap-."

"I have a question," Chiquita interrupted.

Kees stopped in the midst of turning towards the back of the saloon, where the piano was, and turned back around. He returned Chiquita's probing stare with raised eyebrows and appraise. "Well?" he returned.

"We know how we're going to get to the vault," she said, her words cold and logical. "I understand from there we might be finding our own way to Lost Orleans, leaving the ship behind. Supposing we find Lost Orleans, this… _data collection point_ , the tech file. Once we find it, once we hold it, how are we gonna get out of the damn place? …Out of whatever's there? I haven't heard you explain that yet. Because from the sounds of it so far, we're just gonna be left stranded there 'til kingdom come."

"That," Kees replied, "is a fair question. It will reassure you to know that it _has_ been considered and prepared for, however. Oswald has procured a piece of technology that emits a powerful radio signal. It drains a lot of energy however – too much energy, and for that reason it can only be used once, unless we find an extra fusion core or two.

"I'm given to understand that in pre-war times America engaged in a 'space race' with the Chinese. A result of that is there exists a satellite orbiting the earth…"

"A satellite?" Chiquita interjected.

"Like…" Kees waved his free hand exasperatedly, struggling to form an explanation. "…it's like the moon. It hovers in the sky above and never falls to earth, but its man-made technology. It's this that will receive the signal and relay it back to Oswald. From there, Oswald will be able to pin-point our location exactly. He will then send a vertibird to collect us."

"Bullshit," Vyach blurted, his brow furrowed. "You're telling me people before the war had made a moon? How come we don't see it?"

Kees sighed. "It's too small and too far away to see, Vyach. We didn't literally make a moon. Look, all any of you need to know is that we have the technology to signal our location. It can be carried with us as we trek from the vault to Lost Orleans. We can use it to tell Oswald and the recovery team where to go to pick us up. The technical details don't matter."

But Lawman wasn't satisfied. He didn't disbelieve Kees – he was a scavver and had rooted around the ruins of old cities long enough to not underestimate pre-war folk. He'd discovered machines and marvels that would have taken him more than a lifetime to comprehend fully. But he had to question how long Oswald must have been planning this, if he'd been able to locate such tech and worked out how to use it. "How in the goddamn did Oswald get his hands on this technology and figure out what it did and how it did it?"

"That's me…"

Lawman turned around and spotted Leicester hesitantly raising his hand.

"What?" Lawman retorted.

But Leicester only looked to Kees as though seeking approval. Mr Kees returned his look with a hesitant nod.

"I'm the one who… uh, got that tech," he explained reticently. "The…uh, machine that locates and maps out underground complexes too. I kinda… _found_ it."

"You _found_ it?" Vyach probed him.

Everyone's eyes focused on the young, wiry, blonde Dixie in the biker gear. "Yeah, I…"

"Oh _fuck_ ," Lawman swore exasperatedly as he suddenly put all the pieces together and didn't like the picture staring back at him – _didn't like it one bit_. "You come from _Bruise_ …"

"Yeah, so?" Leicester responded truculently.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Vyach asked.

"Who is it, do you think, running the show there?" Lawman replied, pale horror dawning on him with every second. _This wasn't good. In fact, you could say this was pretty much fucked all kinds'a sideways in a Sunday Church._

"You've got to be shittin' me!" Vyach exclaimed as the truth suddenly dawned on him. Chiquita's jaw clamped tight. Slater's face remained impassive, but his eyes glinted, almost as though the added pinch of chaos that this spelled aroused his interest.

"What?" Leicester blustered.

"You stole from the Brotherhood of Steel!" Lawman barked. His gaze spun to Kees who was utterly impassive. Implacable. "You both stole from the fuckin' Brotherhood! That's where you got the tech. That's how you knew how to use it on such short notice. Do you have any idea…?" Lawman was speechless.

"Cool it, Lawman," Kees replied, unmoved.

"Cool it? Oswald has stolen property belonging to a bunch of heavily-armed tech fanatics. Do you have any idea what they'll do to get it back?"

"Relax, Lawman. They don't know it was us who took it," Kees responded. "Nor do they know for what purpose it was taken. Leicester, a thief by trade, and a long time citizen of Bruise, was in a prime position to procure the items we needed. Leicester was paid handsomely. Oswald was very pleased with Leicester's work. So pleased, in fact, that when the Brotherhood started going on the prowl and things in Bruise started heating up, Oswald was gracious enough to grant Leicester asylum at the Post, in exchange for a contract of employment.

"And besides, Lawman," Kees added reasonably, "the Brotherhood are searching for the tech file themselves. We might find ourselves bumping into them sooner rather than later anyway. And when we do they are unlikely to be friendly either way."

Lawman turned to glare at Leicester, who flinched, before he turned back around to Kees. Lawman shook his head slowly. Admonishingly. "You've placed us all in harm's way," he breathed. "Before we've even begun."

"This is a dangerous mission, Lawman," Kees replied gravely. His glasses flashed in the candlelight. "You knew this from the start. We need that technology, so much so that we're better off having it and taking the risk, than we are proceeding without it."

"He's right," Chiquita asserted. "It's the only way."

Vyach also begrudgingly voiced his agreement.

Slater just watched the conversation. Lawman got the unnerving impression that he was searching for weaknesses, that he was assessing everyone's individual vulnerabilities and plotting out some inscrutable strategy. A strategy towards what Lawman couldn't say. A shadow veiled the half of Slater's face that was turned away from the candlelight. It obscured his face so completely that it made one side look like hollow emptiness, like the dark side of the moon. The other side of his face watched Lawman expectantly, over white hands that formed a steeple, like a pale visage.

Lawman, resigned to the state of things as they were, just shook his head and sighed heavily. He made peace with the situation. "Alright, let's just get out of here," he said. "Which of us can operate the steamboat?"

"None of us here," Kees replied.

"Well, then who is -?"

"The captain is already waiting patiently for us over there," Kees replied pre-emptively. He pointed over towards the piano at the back of the saloon, where the revelry was high, the quaffing messy and the drunken singing loud and boisterous. And instantly, the slightly pleased expression that had been displayed on Kees' face beforehand vanished.

Lawman peered over and spotted at least five characters clamouring around the piano.

"O' Uranium Fever has done and got me down! Uranium fever – It's spreading all around…" they all chorused heartily, their flasks swaying in unison like a conductor's baton whilst spilling their contents all over the floor. "…With a Geiger counter in my hand – **I'm going out to go stake me some government land!** Uranium fever has done and got me down!"

It was then that Lawman spotted the focus of Kees' disapproval, and not a small amount of displeasure too. Actually playing the piano, hammering at the keys in a drunken approximation of a tune, was a ghoul. Occasionally, he would continue the piano playing singlehanded (and discordantly) whilst jugging down his own messy tankard of ale, often dribbling it onto the keys.

" _O' I had a talk with the A.E.C._

 _and they brought out some maps that looked good to me_ …" The piano player rasped tunelessly.

Lawman knew the guy. Well, it was wrong to say he really knew him. Lawman did know his name though, through palaver he'd held with others. It was Vance; Vance the crazy old ghoul who worked the trade route along the Mississippi and Tennessee rivers to Bruise and The Pitt. Vance the old sea dog who wore a sepia waistcoat, with a red scarf tied about his neck over the open collar of his faded blue shirt, as though that were still in fashion. Vance, the ghoul who wore a brown flat cap that was so old that the overall effect made him look like a melted mannequin straight from the museum – specifically, the nineteenth-century dockworker exhibit.

He seemed to be enjoying himself.

"Jesus Christ," Kees muttered under his breath, before hobbling his way over to the crowd. His walking cane almost viciously jabbed at the saloon floor as he stalked across it, approaching the merrymaking like a dark cloud threatening a storm.

Lawman exchanged a brief, interested look with Vyach before they both sidled out of their seats and followed Kees to the piano. The others stayed behind.

"… _When all of a sudden I bounced to a stop_

 _At the foot of a mountain, didn't have no top._

 _Uranium Fev..."_

"Vance," Kees called to him with a voice that carried well over the drunken singing, puncturing it like a soft roll of thunder. "Vance…" Mr Kees hobbled around to the side of the piano and stared at the oblivious ghoul, as slowly, one by one, the other revellers drew to an uneasy stop. Still, the old ghoul played.

" _Uranium Fever! It's spreadin' all a-."_

There was a sudden, resounding snap and hollow twanging as Mr Kees slammed the piano lid shut. Vance's hands darted out from under it just in time.

"What the…" he slurred, bewildered. "Hey, that ain't cool, man. Your parents raise you in a stable you goddamn – _oh shit!"_ Vance suddenly realised who his bleary eyes were looking up at. "Uh, Mr Kees, sir. Damn. I was just, uh…" He tried to rise unsteadily to his feet, but his hand slipped on the piano and he ended up stumbling towards Lawman. Lawman managed to step out of the way. _So,_ Lawman thought to himself, _this is our captain…_

"Shit!" Vance repeated. "Fellas," he called over to the crowd that he'd been busy entertaining, "you'd better go on now. Old Vance has some ( _hic_ ) business to attend to. Right, mister?" He turned to Mr Kees, who was not very impressed.

"We were supposed to cast off after the meeting, Vance," Kees intoned, turning his nose up in disdain at the drunken wretch before him.

Vance scratched the back of his head absently. He swayed slightly from side to side, stumbling a little as he processed what was said. "Yeah, right you are, sir. Ready an' awaitin' your orders…"

"You are in no fit condition to operate your ship, Mister Arcturas!" Kees responded bluntly, and with a note of impatience. Then his voice turned softly menacing. "You can be sure Oswald will hear of this incident…

"Lawman! Vyach!" he swivelled around to them, his voice now rolling into its clipped and authoritative tones once more. "Escort Mister Arcturas home. He lives at the second house along the west road. We set off before dawn breaks, once our _captain_ has managed to sober himself up."

Kees moved away before either of them could answer, returning once again to the booth, probably to inform the others of the change in plans. "Fuck's sake," Lawman mumbled under his breath. He was regretting coming over to see what all the commotion was about.

Around him the night was drawing to a close. The saloon was winding down and the revelry receded into a low hum of intoxicated murmurs. Velvet had gone, Lawman knew not where, but it struck him that her absence left the place feeling empty. Jimmy rang the bell signalling 'last orders' and a few shuffled to the bar to press for their final round. Most of these faceless people would find their way to beds for the night, and wake up the following morning to move on with their respective caravans. None of them had any idea that, when that very same morning came, another set of wanderers would set off down a very different road, one few ever dared travel down and fewer ever returned from.

With a heavy and uneasy heart Lawman brought himself back around to the task at hand. He stepped over to their unsteady captain and, with Vyach by his side, they helped him.

Vance almost sagged into Vyach and Lawman as they supported the old ghoul under either arm. "So much for respectin' your elders, ay boys," Vance slurred.

Vyach did not look pleased to be foisting up the ghoul. In fact he looked positively revolted. "Just be sure to keep your skin off of me, a'right… _Fuckin' ghouls_. _Christ_!"

"Oh? Not a fan, eh?" Vance rasped as the two men steered him out the batwing doors, out from under the warm glow and close boozy atmosphere, stepping instead into the chill night air. Vance breathed up into Vyach's face, almost making him retch. The old ghoul cackled.

"I'm gonna snap your fuckin' neck if you don't keep your trap shut," Vyach snarled.

"Well, it looks like the eight of us are gonna get along just peachy, ain't we?" Vance replied, his feet stumbling along the road. Lawman grunted under the old fella's weight – _who knew ghouls could weigh this much?_

"There's seven of us, you moron," Vyach retorted bitterly. "Seven."

"Eight," Vance asserted.

"There's fuckin' seven!"

"Don't bother," Lawman said as they made their way down the winding road, past the other drunks and wastrels sleeping on the streets, and under the soft glow of the lanterns hanging overhead, each one dimly lighting their path. "He's too stinkin' drunk to count."

"Eight!" Vance barked to the world at large.

"Shut up," Vyach hissed. Eyes began to watch them from the shadows.

"You forgot the other one." Vance's voice died down to a sleepy murmur as he was steered forwards. "The one who wasn't there."

"What the fuck is he talking about?" Vyach questioned Lawman in his gruff voice. Lawman rolled his eyes in response. _How should he know?_

"She's still being kitted out," Vance continued dreamily to himself. "But she'll be there. Boy, is she a looker. Bites, though. Don't half bite. Still being fitted... _fitted out_. All hush-hush now…"

Lawman wondered what the hell he was talking about. Was it just drunken nonsense? He looked back over his shoulder to the warm lights of the saloon slipping into the distance, enveloped further and further by the surrounding darkness. Lawman had a lot of apprehensions about the mission up ahead, and he didn't wish to add the spluttering of some drunk to his already mounting list of worries. For now, he hesitantly allowed himself to push it to the back of his mind.

" _Yeah_ ," Vance whispered, his bloodshot eyes agleam.

" _She's a killer..._ "


End file.
